


Girl, For All Seasons

by poisontaster



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Confinement, Drugged Sex, F/M, Gang Rape, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Medical Experimentation, Mental Disintegration, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Will and Mental Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-31
Updated: 2006-03-31
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>God loves you, Lee. And so do I.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girl, For All Seasons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inlovewithnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/gifts).



I.

_Are you alive?_

This, even in the haze.

II.

The next time, he remembers his name.

_lee, i'm lee, lee adama, cag, pilot, screwup, i'm lee…_

…and then it's all gone again.

III.

He wakes up to hands on his skin.

Wakes is…perhaps not the right word.

He still feels cloudy and weak, only half in his body at all. And he knows this is the drug. Nothing is in his control, not even the helpless response of his flesh as fingers glide their way over him, eyelids, nose, lips, the arc of his jaw line, the hollow of his throat where all he can do is swallow.

"Pretty," someone comments, a woman's voice.

"Stubborn," says another, and it sounds the same though it comes from elsewhere, as much as he understands _elsewhere_ in this moment.

"Well. Let's see what we can do about that," a third—and equally identical—voice says contemplatively from nearer than the other two. He thinks the hands on him must be hers. They slide lower, those anonymous hands, across his chest—which he realizes is naked, _he's_ naked—across the plain of his stomach and come to rest on his hips. Strong thumbs with sharp nails simultaneously stroke and hold down and then… And then…

…no…

He doesn't want to know this part. He knows that, even through the dim pleasure and the _wetfrictionheat_. He doesn't want any part of this committed or etched into memory. So…he lets go, and falls back down into darkness.

IV

This time, he is dragged to consciousness, hoarse and cracked from screaming. They are holding him down and his arms are full of needles. He looks up into their faces, too many of them, just alike. For a moment, he thinks it's a hallucination. And then he knows it's not.

"Awake," one says, with deep satisfaction.

"Finally." Another rolls her eyes.

"Stop," he gasps, a tearing horrible sound barely like anything human at all. Or perhaps it's he who is barely human. Who knows what they've done to him. "Please, gods, stop…"

"Stop?" Scarlet fingernails, hooked at the ends, trail ticklish across his skin and trace his navel. His breath catches, not pleasurably. "Why would we want to do that? We've barely just started."

They are all looking at him, the same blonde heads on the same strong, slender bodies; the same pink tongues outlining glossy lips. Avid eyes like water and ice, greedily drinking up every twitch and flail of his helpless body.

"Why?" He doesn't want to ask it, doesn't want to give them the power of even one question over him, but the burning restlessness of whatever they're pumping into his wasted veins leaves little space for such luxuries as thought or pride.

Their heads cock, a ringing circle of cats watching a single crippled mouse. "Because God wills it so," they answer, a single tone that crumples and shakes him to the core. He wishes for unconsciousness, he wishes for death, but the drugs take away even that.

Even that.

 _Anyone can be broken_ , his father said to him once, on one of the rare occasions he'd spoken of the war against the Cylons. _Anyone. It's not a question of strength. In the end, entropy always wins._

He's lost track of how many of them, if he ever knew. He's lost track of how many times. They wring it from him, like a piece of cloth twisted between two hands until it becomes brittle and frayed. His control, his pleasure, his flesh, his seed. They take it all and give back nothing but the drugs, nothing but the same dulcet lies, nothing but the strange flickering heat of their identical bodies. When he dreams—which mercifully are few and far between—they are always illuminated by that bloody flash—up, down; left, right—and all things are rendered in the colors of blood.

They are with him when he wakes, some of them, always, and they pet and stroke him to life and then start all over again.

V.

He wakes.

He is alone. And he remembers. He remembers everything; the before, when he was Lee, and the now, when he's no longer sure.

He is conscious of time; it's preciousness, it's brevity, but for a time—a long time—all he can do is lie there and cry, so empty that it feels like he echoes. There is no strength left in him. There is nothing left in him, but ashes and broken glass and these helpless tears.

He wants to go. He's afraid to go. And part of him, the part that spurts deep and hard between hard white thighs on command, wants no such thing.

He thinks it's that part, the part that is now _theirs_ , broken to their hand like any lapdog, is what makes him sit up, get up, scraping himself off the stained and sweaty sheets. His arms and legs, holed through, shake with the effort; merely standing is agony. Moving an impossibility. But move he does, wrapping the coverlet over his battered skin and fumbling his way from bed to wall, around the perimeter of the (his) room to the door.

 _Lee,_ he thinks. _I am Lee Adama and somewhere, my friends are waiting for me._

He doesn't know if that's really true, but it helps him close his fingers over the battered knob, turn it and pull the door open. He sways on the threshold, looking down empty corridors and feeling cold and lost and wanting nothing so much as to return to his bed, hide under the blanket and wait for them to come and make all of this recede again.

 _Lee Adama_ , he thinks, and it's the _Adama_ , more than anything, that allows him to slide his naked toes over that dividing line. After that, it's easier; he only wants to go back every third step, stumbling and sliding down the wall towards the door at the far end of the corridor; the one whose glass panes shine with a golden refulgence that can only be sunlight.

He's maybe thirty feet from that promise of freedom when the door clatters open, swinging wide and wild on it's hinges to slam into the wall. He flinches and fights the impulse to slide to the floor, even though his legs make no firm promises of support. The light is even brighter, unfiltered by glass, and for a moment, as he squints blearily through tearing eyes, he thinks he must be hallucinating.

Then Kara's eyes meet his and she smiles, the gleeful 'frak yes' smile that's made him follow her through a thousand mistakes and adventures. "Lee."

"K…Kara." He doesn't think he's going to be able to give voice to her name, his vocal cords taut and rusty from disuse for anything other than animal noises of pleasure or pain. They didn’t like him to talk.

Just the thought, the disparity of _them_ versus Kara _here_ robs him of what little strength he has left and he starts to slide down the wall. At once, Kara is there, her arm around his back and her palm supporting his elbow, holding him there. "I didn't…didn't think you'd come for me," he admits, and then he's crying again; not actual sobs, but the helpless escape of salt tainted waters that he can do nothing to prevent.

"Lee, of course I did," Kara says, exasperated. "It's what God wants."

It takes a moment for it to hit his numb brain, though his eyes widen long before; so wide he thinks he's been struck blind, dazzled by the sun. "W…what?"

"C'mon now," Kara says soothingly, "Let's get you back to bed. It's all right. It will be over soon…"

"No…"

But she is strong and healthy, and he is used up and weak; there's nothing in him to even fight back as she turns and propels him on.

"It's for your own good, Lee," Kara confides, leaning her head close enough he can smell the government issue shampoo in her hair. "I mean…really. What were you doing with your life before anyway? You looked like shit."

"No…" Not even really a sound this time, only a broken croak of protest, ignored as all the others have been.

She takes him back and lies him down, stripping away covering and defenses until he is naked and flayed bare. "It won't hurt," she tells him, tracing the messy spoor of track marks along arms that used to be smooth and strong, arms that had once held her. "When God takes you, nothing hurts at all anymore."

He wants to spit in her face, to make some defiant rebuttal, but that too is gone. He is only conscious of her fingers, smoothing over wounds like tiny mouths, each it's own separate sensation of pleasure/pain.

"God loves you, Lee," she tells him. "And so do I."

VI.

Eventually, they come back. And Kara's right; after a while, it doesn't even hurt.

 _"Are you alive?"_ they ask him, over and over, a perfect chorus of perfect voices.

Lee used to know the answer to that question. He really truly did, the certainty of knowledge now the only placeholder of the knowledge itself. But like so many things, he doesn't know.

They smile, when he tells them, pleased, satisfied. "Good," they murmur over and over. "Very good."


End file.
